


Depot

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21800224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Gladio works the isles.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	Depot

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Special thanks to Ri for the bun~
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this

The hardware store is a weirdly good place to pick up men, though Cor’s told him a hundred times not to flirt with the customers. Gladiolus doesn’t do it _intentionally._ Usually, they come to him. The uniforms don’t come in his size, and the thin black fabric has to stretch taut across his pecs, the buttons always threatening to snap. It draws enough attention that if they were on a commission basis, he’d make twice as much as the rest of his coworkers combined. But they don’t, so Gladiolus just wanders aimlessly down the isles near the end of his late evening shift, waiting for needy customers to come to him.

Then he spots a beanpole eyeing the assembly-required bookshelves, and he stops to think: yeah. Maybe he should try a nerd for once. He usually just gets other muscle-heads—builders and handymen that are _almost_ as thick as him. But the cute brunette down isle ten is almost painfully skinny, still quite tall, dressed in fitted dark pants and a purple coeurl-patterned shirt that shows off just how small and sleek he is. His ash brown hair is swept back, his eyes half hidden behind thin glasses. He looks like the sort of suave, intelligent geek who’s never done a day of hard labour in his life.

He also looks like he has a great, tight ass, so Gladiolus wanders over and offers, “Need any help with anything?”

The man looks sideways at him, pausing for a fraction of a second—not nearly as long as he should. He doesn’t do the usual sweeping appraisal of Gladiolus’ large body and instead just glances at his nametag. That’s not going to garner the information Gladiolus wants, so he thrusts his hand forward and greets, “Gladio.”

The man glances at his hand and hesitates. But he ultimately takes it. Gladiolus wraps all ten digits around his slender fingers and gives him a firm shake, enjoying the rush of his smooth skin and warmth. The man offers in a slightly posh accent, “Ignis.”

“Ignis,” Gladiolus repeats, voice deliberately low and smooth. He’s slow in withdrawing his hand, savouring the moment. Then he crosses his arms over his broad chest to emphasize his best feature. “You building your first shelf? We have starter kits that come with all the supplies and instructions.”

Ignis’ eyes return to the white box in front of him, printed with an image of the finished product in a generic living room. “This doesn’t have the required pieces?”

“Oh, it does. But they’re a bit more complicated, and the instructions aren’t as... y’know... simple.”

“Hm.” Ignis stares at the picture a little longer, maybe trying to decide if he can manage that, or maybe just trying to imagine the dark wood finish in his own home. He doesn’t look like the sort of person who could build it anyway, let alone carry the extremely heavy box to the register.

Gladiolus takes the chance to suggest, “If you need help getting it home, my shift ends in ten minutes, and I’m always here to help a guy out.” It _might_ be coming on too strong. But it’s usually not. Usually, people take one look at the visible lines of his rock-hard abs through the peepholes around the buttons of his shirt, and they’re all too eager to take him up on his offer. 

Ignis does stare at him for a long moment, then decides, “I’ll take it.”

“Great. I can take it to your car—”

“No need,” Ignis cuts in, gracefully bending down and suddenly hiking the entire box over his shoulder. Before Gladiolus can protest and squawk about his safety, Ignis has straightened again, holding the box up like it weighs no more than a bundle of tissues. He does purr, “But you’re free to come watch me set it up once your shift ends.” He even dons a slight grin that numbs Gladiolus right through with shock. Before he can gush an apology for his assumptions, because _clearly_ he was _so_ wrong, Ignis marches easily past him. 

At the end of the isle, while Gladiolus is still frozen to the spot, Ignis turns and adds, “Are you coming? I suppose I’ll have to give who ever rings me up my phone number. For newsletters and such.”

Gladiolus splutters, “Right, uh—sure thing—” and sprints out ahead of Ignis, now _desperate_ for that number and his shift to end _immediately_.


End file.
